"You're the one who told me Rollins is clinging to that blanket like it's the Holy Grail, so I don't think he'll be too happy you have these."
"I'll give them back." After I copy them, I thought. "You mean after you copy them?" Jeff said.
"Did I say that?"
"Work with Rollins on this. It's not like you can call up every storage facility within a hundred miles and ask if Verna Mae Olsen rented space. They won't tell you a damn thing."
"You're right, but they'd tell a chief of police."
"You got it. If Burl wants in on this investigation, it's the perfect job for him. He may not have the time, but he sure has the desire."
"How long before you hook me up with DeShay and I can get into the prison?"
"I don't know. Depends on how many people get murdered tomorrow."
"Let's hope that for a multitude of reasons the number is less than one," I answered.
He sat up and brought me to him, his lips close to mine. "I'll help you get into the prison, but prepare yourself. It won't be fun."
We kissed and I tasted pickles and onions, but the way he held me, the shift from passion to protectiveness, told me he might just be a little worried.
And now I was, too.
13
Before Jeff's partner picked me up Wednesday morning for the trip to Huntsville State Prison, I made a quick run to Marjorie McGrady's place—calling first, of course. She agreed to see me, and I showed her the newspaper photo of Lawrence Washington. She remembered the layout of the article, where the story had been placed on the page more than his picture, and stared at the photo for a long time before deciding he was indeed the man who'd picked up the blanket. I stared right along with her, and though I decided Washington and Will bore a vague resemblance, it wasn't enough to add to the list of reasons he was the birth father.
After I returned home, DeShay Peters picked me up in his unmarked police car and we started north on I-45 toward the prison. The first hour of the drive was dedicated to a discussion of DeShay's latest girlfriend. We had come to the conclusion that she was too high-maintenance for him. DeShay, forced to wear a coat and tie for the job, would rather be wearing baggie jeans and Houston Texan T-shirts, whereas Tisha spent hours shopping at the Galleria for shoes when she wasn't getting her nails painted with little American flags.
"Good," he said, leaning the driver's seat back a little. "Tisha's history. Now, Abby, tell me more about your side of this case. You know Jeff. The man's good, but he'd rather chew gum than talk. I only got the Cliffs Notes version of what we're doing today."
I told him what I'd learned so far, and by the time I was done, the rifle towers and razor wire surrounding the old redbrick units that make up Huntsville State Prison appeared on the horizon.
"I try not to look on either side of the highway when I drive by here on my way to Dallas," I said.
"Why?" DeShay asked, sounding surprised.
"Because Huntsville State Prison is a nasty old dungeon filled with hatred and violence."
"As far as I'm concerned this is the best damn place in the world, even if half the population are brothers. Not to say I don't work every day at getting more white guys locked up. White guys do just as much evil shit as the next man, but they got so damn much money, they get mouthpieces who can actually talk for them. Black dudes? They got nothing but mamas who cry a lot. Damn injustice, Abby. You hear what I'm saying?"
"I hear, all right. Jeff tell you my ex is here? He's a white dude."
"Say what?" DeShay sounded genuinely shocked.
"Yup. Killed two people."
"If it'll make you less jumpy, he's not here, Abby. He'd be in Livingston."
"No," I said. "He's here. On death row."
"Death row's been moved. 'Course when they give him the needle, they'll bring him here. You gonna come and watch?"
"Are you kidding? I never want to see him again, alive or dead. He blackmailed my adoptive father, nearly killed me and then for some stupid reason, when he was about to drown in a flash flood, I saved his sorry ass."
"That's the difference between you and him. It's called a conscience."
"Yeah, I have plenty of that," I said, nodding. "My daddy used to say conscience is like a toothless old hound. It might not bite you, but you can't keep it from barking. Mine barks all the time."
"Jeff talked about the case that brought you two together after we were partnered up, but he never said your ex was the bad guy. How'd you hook up with someone like that?"
"He was smart, could charm the skin off a snake and I thought I loved him. Didn't take me long to figure out his charm came courtesy of Jose Cuervo. He was an alcoholic, and I divorced him. But did I keep my distance? No. Big mistake. He killed my yardman, partnered up with the lawyer who'd arranged my illegal adoption and then murdered him, too. All for money. It's very sordid and makes me sound like a fool."
"You are no fool, not if Jeff Kline, the smartest guy I ever met, is head over his ass about you."
I laughed. "Feeling's mutual."
"You like the PI stuff?" DeShay asked, pulling into the parking lot of the Goree Unit, where Washington had lived for the last eighteen years.
"More than I thought," I said, noting the turnoff was almost in the shadow of the humongous cement statue of Sam Houston that for some bizarre reason guards the interstate. The thing was ugly, white and about six stories high. What in hell were the folks in Austin thinking when they contracted for this? That statue was scary enough to give kids nightmares.
DeShay parked after we were checked through at the gate—a police badge is handy at locked entrances—and as we got out of the car, I said, "I hope you plan to help me out with this interview. If I go wrong, pinch me or something."
"Jeff would send me out of this life if I hurt you."
I slugged his arm. "You know what I mean."
"Hey, I'll be right next to you the whole time. Just give me a look and I'll step in, but this is your deal."
Once we were escorted inside, DeShay turned over his weapon, and since I was civilian, I gave up my driver's license. We passed through a metal detector, and a young man wearing a gray uniform with navy epaulets led us down a narrow, bleak corridor.
We were taken to the empty visitors' area. The long room was split by a counter with chairs facing mesh and Plexiglas that divided the prisoners from their visitors. Despite the air-conditioning, the old room smelled of mildew with an undercurrent of body odor and urine— those smells leaching from beyond the divider. And then there was the hint of eau de sour mop.
The guard gestured us to chairs and said the prisoner was on his way. Then he stood in one corner, hands behind his back, his young, smooth face impassive.
"This place makes me feel so small." I didn't add scared, but my heart was pounding so hard I felt every beat in my temples. Gates and bars and ancient, chilly rooms had a definite effect on me, I was learning. Not to mention the unsmiling faces of the gray shadows who worked here. How could they do this day in and day out? Where do you stash your fear before you step beyond those heavy doors?
Through the distortion of the scratched, smudged Plexiglas I saw a guard let Washington into the room. He wore no cuffs or shackles as I'd expected, and they left him alone. Tall and not as dark-skinned as DeShay, his prison-issue pants and shirt were as white as the Sam Houston statue.
He sat across from us, and I stifled an "Oh, my God." The grainy, copied picture from an old newspaper had not told the truth. This man's resemblance to Will shocked me. Sure his skin was darker, his eyes brown not amber, but he could have spit that boy out, that's how sure the resemblance was.